


From Morocco With Love

by avintagekiss24



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Ass-Kicking, Assassins & Hitmen, Black Character(s), Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019, Continental Hotel (John Wick), Cooking, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Female Character of Color, John Wick (Movies) References, Mention of blood, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Punching, Romanian Bucky Barnes, Secret Children, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avintagekiss24/pseuds/avintagekiss24
Summary: It's been a while since you've seen Bucky. You didn't think that once you saw him again, you'd have him by gunpoint in your kitchen.





	From Morocco With Love

**Author's Note:**

> This makes a bingo! Yay me!  
> Fill #5 for Bucky Barnes Bingo 2019  
> Square B2 - AU: John Wick

_ Open Contract _

_ Bucky Barnes _

_ $14 million _

 

You let out a quick laugh as your eyes scan the text message. You set the iPhone down, next to the cutting board, and turn your attention back to the tomato in front of you. You cut a few more slices, but slide your eyes back to the screen of your phone, reading and then rereading the simple, short message.

 

_ Open Contract _

_ Bucky Barnes _

_ $14 million _

 

_ What in the fuck has he done now?  _ You wonder, pushing some of your hair out of your face as a deep sigh exits your mouth. You lift your eyes, focusing on the tree that sways gently in your backyard for a few seconds. You’d thought that maybe he had retired. He said he was going to anyway, lying bastard. He never did know how to keep his word. You should - your train of thought is broken when your phone chimes again, another message from a different number coming through.

 

_ You game? _

 

You stare down at the phone. Winston. He’s trying to drag you back in. He’s trying to poke the sleeping bear, but you’re out. You’ve  _ been  _ out, and you want to stay out. You had asked for your freedom long ago. You were given an impossible task, one that no one in their right mind would take, and not only did you complete it, you did it with  _ style _ . The story still lives throughout your community, even after all of this time. You’re a legend. You’d like to keep it way.

 

_ Nope. _

 

You set your phone back down and scoop up the diced tomatoes, turning on your heels to throw them into your tomato sauce. Your phone chimes again. You ignore it. You stir your sauce, grab a pinch of basil and sprinkle it in. You bring the wooden spoon to your lips and hum in delight at the taste. Perfect. That’s what Bucky used to say about it.  _ Perfect babe, just perfect. _ You shake your head, dismissing the memory. Your phone chimes again. You grab two plates from over your head and grab the tongs, placing strings of spaghetti on each plate. You pour some sauce over both, then pad toward the wooden table, your bare feet softly thudding against the hardwood floor. 

 

Your phone chimes again. 

 

“Daciana?” You call loudly, “Dinner!”

 

Daciana.  _ It’s a hard -ch sound, like church,  _ he told you _. _ You loved the name as soon as it spilled from his lips.  _ You know,  _ he continued _ , Roman Dacia was a province of the Roman Empire. It fell, like everything else back then, but later, it became modern day Romania. _ You figured it was an ode to his birthplace, but, you also liked that he was full of random information like that. So, Daciana it was.

 

You move back into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to pull out a Fiji water and an apple juice. You grab your phone on your way back to the table and smile brightly as your six year old comes bounding into the room.

 

_ I know Bucky is a little close to home for you, but you’re the only one who can do this _

 

_ Bucky Barnes is a tricky bastard _

 

_ You still there? _

 

You flip your phone face down beside your plate of food. You pour the cold apple juice into a small cup and push it toward your chatty little girl, leaning back in your chair as you watch her dig into her plate. She talks your ear off, she laughs, she gets tomato sauce all over her shirt. She is the absolute best part of you. She’s the best thing you could have ever done. She’s why you stay out.

 

_ There’s a reason why you keep this phone turned on… _

 

Deep down, there is something in you that just has to know what’s going on. It takes a special kind of person to do what you do. You can’t just turn that off because you get pregnant. You did try for a while, a long while, to stay completely off the grid, but you went stir crazy. Even if you aren’t actively participating, you still like to know the rules of the game, just in case. Your phone chimes again. 

 

_ Freedom comes with a price, Hawkins. You’re the BEST. You shouldn’t try and run from it. It’s who you are... _

 

“Finished mama!” Daciana proclaims proudly.

 

“Great job! Meet you in the bathroom in five, okay? We gotta wash that hair tonight.”

 

_ I already paid for my freedom, and then some. Call Wick. _

 

_ Can’t. He’s out too _

 

Your lips quirks up at the edges as you read over the message, “Good for him.” You mumble.

 

You turn off the phone. 

 

Hour pass. The darkness outside matches the current state of your quiet home in the middle of nowhere. Daciana is cradled against your chest, her hand dug into your hair, her mouth open as she sleeps on top of you. You hear a creak from somewhere in the house, and your eyes spring open out of instinct. You roll your head slightly toward the window, your eyes zeroing in on another tree as you listen for another disturbance in the stillness. Your lips part, the minuscule hairs on your arms standing up as your breathing becomes shallow. You see? It never goes away. Your instinct. Your training. 

 

There’s another creak. Most people would think it’s just the house settling. Houses make noises all the time. But not you. You know better. You slip out from underneath the small girl and set your feet on the ground,  _ slowly _ , one by one. You stand, pulling her up into your arms and move briskly toward the walk-in closet. You lay her down on the pre-made pallet and move back toward the reinforced, soundproof door, locking it behind you. You sink to your knees once you’re by the bed, reaching for the 9mm handgun and hunting knives you keep stashed. Another creak sounds deep in the house. You spring back to you feet, gun pointed toward the threshold of your bedroom door. 

 

You move slowly out into the hallway, your eyes darting around the darkness. There’s a change in the atmosphere. You can  _ smell  _ it. You take the stairs quickly, turning the corner into your kitchen, your gun leading the way. You step past the table but halt suddenly, lowering your arms and turning your head slightly to the left. Without warning, two arms encircle you from behind. You elbow the person hard, creating a small space for you to be able to turn and land a kick into their chest. The intruder stumbles back as you rush him, throwing a barrage of punches and kicks, him blocking most but you get a few good ones in. 

 

You pull your knife from the rim of your yoga pants and bring it down with such a force you can hear it cut through the air. He sidesteps you, but you’ve already anticipated that move. You whirl around, dropping the knife from your right hand and catch it with your left, stretching out your arm and pushing the knife toward the assailant. He’s quick, but not quick enough. He grunts loudly as the knife rips through his flesh. 

 

He stumbles back again, cursing loudly as he covers the wound with his hand, “La dracu!”

 

You rush him, faking him out with a right hook, and swing as hard as you can with your left. Most of your targets are stunned by the fact that you can fight just as effectively with your left hand as you can with your right, but not this one. He catches your left wrist before your punch can connect and whips you around, your back now to his chest. You struggle against him, bending over quickly and using most of your strength and your hip to flip him right over your body, sending him crashing into your hand carved dinner table. 

 

The man grunts loudly, grabbing at his ribs as you recover with your gun, pointing it at his head, finger beginning to squeeze the trigger, “Ash! Ash, it’s me.”

 

You stop dead in your tracks. You  _ know  _ that voice. Your eyes try to scan the owner, not wanting to believe it is who you think it is, “How do you-”

 

“It’s me, Ash. Holy shit.” He groans as he rolls over onto his side slowly.

 

You keep your gun trained on him, adjusting and re-adjusting your grip as your mind races. It can’t be. It’s not- “Bucky?”

 

He stands, stumbling over the broken table as he tries to get his balance. He holds up a hand, before dropping it quickly as rushed breaths push through his teeth audibly, “How many men do you know that can speak Romanian?”

 

“Plenty.” You spit, gun still trained on him.

 

He eyes you cautiously in the dark, careful not to make any sudden movements, knowing how deadly you can be, even when you know the person in front of you, “You can put that down now.” You throws his eyes toward the gun.

 

“Can I?”

 

He nods his head, “I’m not here to hurt you, Ash.” When you don’t respond, he chuckles a little, “Come on, you’re making me nervous with that thing.”

 

You lower the handgun,  _ slowly _ , but keep a defensive stance, “Why are you here?” You ask lowly. 

 

He takes a beat, grabbing at the napkins on the table and pressing them to his bleeding shoulder, “I can’t stop by to say hi?”

 

“I haven’t seen you in two years. I don’t think so.”

 

“Has it really been that long?” He asks, his face screwing up in genuine confusion, “Time flies.” You stare at him, “It was a joke.”

 

He’s still an idiot. You shake your head, pursing your lips, “You have to go. Now.”

 

“Come on babe.”

 

“No. There is no babe, not anymore. Get out.”

 

He sighs, dropping his head, “I’m in trouble. I’m-”

 

“Excommunicado.”

 

“You know?”

 

“I keep my ear to the ground. That’s why you have to go, Bucky. You can’t be here.”

 

He nods slowly, “Precious cargo, I know.” You peak up toward the ceiling where the precious cargo lays, none the wiser to what’s happening around her, “Can I see her?”

 

The seriousness in his voice pulls your eyes right back to him. His hair is longer now, reaching his shoulders. It’s wavy. You like it like this. You like it any way he wears it if you’re being honest. Long, short, buzzed, blonde, he made it all work. You stare at each other for a second, blinking,  _ remembering.  _ It was his blues eyes that caught you off guard way back when. They were so mysterious but playful. You’re not even sure how one could pull that off, especially someone as dangerous as he was. But he did. 

 

You don’t say anything. You just turn and move back toward the long staircase. You feel him behind you the whole way, keeping a small distance as you climb the stairs and move down the hallway. You move into your bathroom, running your hand underneath the counter until your fingers glide over a small, silver key. You pull it out and step past him as you unlock the closet door. You step aside. He pushes past you, making his way toward the small girl laid out on the mountain of blankets and pillows. He bends to pick her up carefully, grimacing as pain rips through him. 

 

You watch as he moves back into your room and takes a seat on your bed, cradling the child to his chest. The faintest smile spreads on his lips as he looks her over. It’s strange. He was never this vulnerable when it was just the two of you, but then again, you’re both assassins, could you ever  _ really  _ trust one another? He runs his fingers down her gentle face, like he’s etching it in his min, like he doesn’t want to forget. It might be a long time before he sees her again. It may be the  _ last  _ time he sees her again. 

 

“I love her so much.”

 

His voice is barely a whisper. You drop your head, biting the inside of your cheek, “I know.” You answer. 

 

You had both made the decision, when you found out that two was becoming three, that he needed to stay away. He’d be there, as much as he could, mostly in the shadows. It was just too dangerous. If anyone found out about her, she’d be a pawn in a game that she didn’t sign up for. You couldn’t have that. Bucky wouldn’t have that. 

 

You remember one of your last nights together in the Continental Hotel. You’d snuck in through the back, with the help of Charon, and rode the elevator to his floor. You kept your face and prominent baby bump covered with a hoodie and baseball cap. You pushed through the door with the keycard provided to you. As soon as the door clicked behind you, and the two of you locked eyes, he fell to his knees. He placed both hands on either side of your stomach, he lifted your shirt, planted feather light kisses on your tight skin. He was excited. He really was.

 

The two of you made love. You bit your lip as your eyes roamed along his face as he laid next to you, his fingers playing with your hair. You wanted him to get out too. The two of you could make a life, you really could. Plenty had done it before. He just looked back at you. He smiled slowly as his eyes shifted between yours. He ran his hand down your face, made some stupid joke and pulled you close to him. He whispered into your ear as you fell asleep. When you woke up, he was gone. 

 

“What did you do?” You ask.

 

“I killed someone.”

 

You roll your eyes. Still a cheeky bastard, “No shit, Sherlock.”

 

He chuckles, but never takes his eyes off of the precious cargo in his hands, “I killed Santino D’Antonio in the Continental Lounge.” You gasp, prompting him to shake his head and sigh, “He was gonna kill me, Ash.”

 

“You know the rules Bucky!” You hiss angrily, “No killing on Continental grounds, you know that!” You rack your hands and fingers through your hair, “God, you’re so stupid!”

 

“And reckless, I know.” He chuckles, “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

 

He leans down, kissing the small girl on her forehead. He closes his eyes and breathes her in, whispering something in Romanian before he lays her back down on the bed. He stands, grabbing the throw blanket from the end of the mattress and covers her sweetly. He runs his hand down her arm and smiles at her again, before turning back to you, “I have one last favor with the Director. I’m gonna see if she can get me to Casablanca.”

 

“And then?”

 

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ll figure that out when I get to Morocco.”

 

You stare at each other again. He pulls you to him, crashing his lips to yours in one final kiss. It’s deep, and passionate, making your knees weak. He wraps an arm around your back and pulls you as close as he can to him, needing to feel you against him just one last time. When he pulls away, you stand there, staring at him with wide eyes, your mouth slightly open as your brain races. Your bottom lip quivers, very slightly, almost unnoticeably, but it quivers. You don’t need to say that you love him. He nods his head gently. He knows. 

 

“I love you, baby.” He knows that you need to hear him say it. 

 

He steps to the side and brushes past you, his fingers reaching out to slide up your arm as he leaves. You don’t turn around. You just listen as his footsteps grow further and further away from you until you can’t hear them anymore. You try to blink back the tears that threaten, but they fall freely, hot against your skin as you stare into your dark bedroom. You’re not ready for a life without Bucky Barnes. You like having him in the shadows. 

 

Morning comes very quickly. You zip up some bags, throwing them over your shoulder as you skip down the stairs and out into the garage. You throw them into the back of your 1970 Chevy Chevelle, and then head to a tool cart, pulling open the top drawer. You grab your favorite pearl handled 1911 handgun and shove it into the back of your black jeans. You pull out a small .22 and push it into your ankle holster and start throwing clips and ammunition into a smaller bag. You pull out another drawer and stuff your jacket pockets with throwing stars, and tuck a few knives into the hidden pockets in your jacket. 

 

You run back inside and collect your still sleeping child, placing a hand firmly on her back as you hold her to you, and make your way out of your home. You lay her down in the back of your car and jump into the driver's seat, squealing out of the garage. It’s a short drive to your destination. You’re now standing on the front porch, Daciana against your chest as you knock, turning your head to glance up and down the street.

 

“Ash,” your long time friend says, wrapping her robe around her body, “It’s early.”

 

“I know,” You nod, handing over your little girl, “Listen, I have something I gotta do. I have to help a friend. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone but, I need you to-” Your friend nods, silencing you. You pull out a debit card from your wallet and a folded up piece of paper, “Use the card for anything that you need for her.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“If anyone comes here, looking for me, asking weird questions, or anything suspicious, you go to this address. Ask for Charon, he’ll keep you safe until I can get back. Okay?”

 

She nods, scanning her eyes over the handwritten note, “Okay. I got it, I promise. I’ll keep her safe.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

You lean in and place a kiss on Daciana’s head, smoothing her hair down with your hand before you turn and move back down to your car, “Thank you.” You call after slamming the drivers door closed. 

 

You pull away from the curb before you hear a response. You smile widely as the wind whips through your hair as you hit the on ramp to the highway. Bucky Barnes owes you a new dinner table. You’ll see to it that he gets you one. You pull out your phone and type out a cryptic message before turning it back off and tossing it into the empty passenger seat.

 

_ I’m in... but not in the way you’d hope dear Winston. _


End file.
